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A New York Escorts Confessions
Fur
It’s been so cold in New York that I’ve dug into the bottom of my sweater piles to bring out the big guns. My oversized sweaters from Ireland. My turtlenecks from L.L. Bean. My long silk underwear. Now if only I could find a hat that doesn’t make me look like an extra for the muppets, I’d be in business.
It’s been hard to get to yoga when it’s this cold, but the last thing in the world I want to do is give those winter five a chance to creep back to my hips. So the other day I bundled up as best I could and headed for the studio.
Usually the room there tends to be pretty warm, but nothing but nothing will stop this kind of cold from seeping through the windows. Luckily my favorite cold weather hoodie did just the trick. It’s an old black light wool sweater with a fur lined hood, cozy and worn in and yummy through and through. After a few warrior ones and twos, I was able to even take it off for a while.
The class was fabulous, taught by a new teacher I’d never had before. We did these quad openers that just…I don’t know. Released some kind of demon from my legs that had taken up residence there. That was followed by tons and tons of hip openers. By shivasana at the end of class, I was a new woman altogether. I cuddled back into my hoodie and enjoyed the release.
Usually I don’t interact too much with yoga teachers outside of class. There’s this thing that happens with so many of them—this jostling of all the students to talk to them, or hang with them. It all strikes me as a little too culty for my taste. But this time, I was moved to say something. After all, a good yoga class on a cold day make Alexa a very sweet and open girl.
“Thank you so much,” I said coming up to her while she was standing with a bunch of students and extending my hand. “Your class was really really so great. What other days do you teach here?”
As she turned to me, her bright face suddenly went from completely open to completely closed. She glared at me. Her gaze went so deep I thought I was truly going to fall over. And then she said in a low, firm growl, “If you ever, ever wear fur in my class again I will ask you to leave.”
And she turned on her heel. And she flipped her ponytail. And she marched off in disgust.
Clearly the demon from my thigh had taken up residence somewhere else. Unbelievable, right? I mean, can you believe her nerve?!
And The Stalker Is…
Answers sometimes come from the most unlikeliest of places.
And so it was Tuesday that after months and months of being out of touch that I heard from good ole’ D, one of my favorite clients of all times.
“No way!” I said when I heard his familiar gravely Brooklynese. “You are kidding me!”
“Would I kid you? What are you doing Thursday?”
“Does this mean you’re back?”
“Just for a week.”
“Bummer. Thursday is great. Awesome. How is Tokyo?”
“The food sucks.”
I laughed. Classic D. “Okay. So I suppose we will not going out for sushi.”
“You,” he said with all the seriousness in the world,”Have just said that four-letter word for the last time.”
D actually wanted to go to the Lower East Side. That cracked me up since I believe the last time we were there he referred to it as a, “crappy neighborhood”. He may not be eating raw fish but he had certainly evolved.
About half way through his steak, D turned serious. “So I got something to talk to you about.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you remember, that thing I took you to, that black tie thing at the Plaza?”
“The Plaza is no more. Long live the Plaza.” We drank to that, then D ordered another bottle of wine. While he was listening to the waiter, I tried to remember what he was talking about. “I don’t know D,” I said, turning to him after he was done. You took me to a lot of fancy things.”
“Okay. Well there was this guy at The Plaza thing, P, do you remember him? Tall Italian guy? Doesn’t shave too much. Likes that 5:00 shadow business?”
“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Well he remembers you. He couldn’t stop talking about you that night. Bugged me for weeks for your number. Guy’s kinda a dick. I ignored him. Sorry.”
“That’s okay.” I had no idea where this was going.
“Well anyway, I had some business to discuss with him this week and he confesses to me he saw you like a few months ago on the upper West Side going into some building. He figured that’s where you lived. He wanted to talk to you. But then he decide he’d play “the secret admirer angle” or some sort of crap.”
A scallop stuck in my throat. I grabbed for my water glass.
“Yeah I figured. Fucking dumb ass. So he sends you flowers, which you already know about. But he doesn’t send a card. I told him that was the dumbest ass thing I had ever heard. I mean what the fuck? It’s fuckin’ New York.” He took a swig of his wine. “Scuze the language. Hey he doesn’t know what you do by the way. I never told him. Thought I’d just let him think I had one over him, you know what I mean?”
When I had finally stopped choking and caught my breath enough to be able to talk, I tried to piece the story together. “Wait a second. Wait I don’t get it. If he didn’t send a card, or follow it up, or stop me—how was I supposed to know that it was he—”
“Alexa, hell if I know. I guess that’s why he talked to me. What a bozo, right? Anyway, I’m supposed to ask you. So do you want to go out with him?
I started to say I wouldn’t go out with him if he was the last able-bodied male on the planet. I started to say that he had nearly given me a heart attack, nearly made me consider buying a townhouse in Cincinnati, nearly made me consider chopping my hair and dying it and going into a nunnery.
But instead I laughed. I laughed and laughed. White roses. Innocent. Completely stupid, but yet completely innocent all the same.
Unbejeanable
So feast your eyes on my beloved Paper Denim Cloth Jeans. Once with holes in both knees and now—NOT! Amazing no? Denimtherapy.com totally rocks. Take that Viagra.
When I saw what the package was, I immediately opened it up right there and then in my lobby. I showed my doorman. I showed my super. I showed the therapist in 4G, the owner of the shitzu with the cast on its leg, and several unidentified nannies and assorted Russian construction workers doing something on the sixth floor. I walked ten blocks to show Stan the amazing tailor who was, in a word, amazed.
If you look really closely, microscopically or at a cellular level even, you could see that the weave on the knees is a slightly different texture than the rest of the pants. But on? Wouldn’t have any idea whatsoever.
It all makes a girl think that miracles really do happen. Maybe the tooth fairy and Santa actually exist. Maybe Elvis lives and pigs fly. And maybe just maybe, even if I can’t live forever, my jeans will.
The Solution Will Not Be Televised
Here’s the good news.
I’m back in New York. As far as I can tell there was no follow up to the White Rose Incident. There have been no other packages for me (well Ruby sent me some fantastically sexy stockings from Belgrade but I’m sure that doesn’t count). There are no unusual messages on my phone and no one in the building seems to be looking at me like They Know. Actually, the only thing the doormen do want to know, is where their Christmas Swedish Ginger Cookies are.
And then here’s the bad news.
I mustered all the courage I had to face Leo and give him the story about the ex-stalker. I tried to muster all the inner calm I had also and plaster it on my face. Again, not so easy a task for a redhead. My heart was racing the whole time and my breath kept catching in my throat. What I really wanted to do was sob and look through the footage by myself.
I don’t know if Leo believed me but he did oblige me. And I don’t know what he would have said if we had actually managed to get back to the day in question. But as soon as Leo tried to access the footage, it was obvious something was really wrong.
Turns out the computer hasn’t been storing the footage on the hard drive for about three months now. Why no one figured this out before I—a tenant—checked, I’ll never know. I actually screamed at the super about it when I saw him in the hall later on. My God I have got to calm down.
But it’s going to be hard. This unsolved mystery is driving me crazy.
Anyway I’m trying to throw myself back into work to compensate. I took off on a lot of people, right at the holiday season, which is really not good. Fingers crossed that my Happy New years calls result in some work and some good will.
Cin City
For 2007, I wish you all great happiness.
I wish you all great health.
I wish that when you go to fill your rental car up with gas, that you don’t accidentally not put the nozzle in all the way, thereby dousing your coat, your scarf, your jeans, your shoes with gas. And your new black Kooba bag that you JUST bought yourself for Christmas. And your newly upgraded cute red Razr phone that is now dead as a door nail.
Guess I’ve got a little case of the jitters.
In 2007 I find myself not in New York City, but in Cincinnati, OH, where I’ve been on an ever extending visit to Pete, Jennifer and my nieces and nephew.
I know. I’m a coward.
The white roses freaked me out. So I fled. Under the guise of being a most excellent sister-in-law, sister, and aunt.
I wonder how long I can stay here. I’ve found a killer yoga studio that has whipped me into shape like nobody’s business. I’m taking Pete’s dog Clarice on long, indulgent, walks in the hills of Mount Adams that leave both me and her panting and exhilarated. I’ve seen a perfect four bedroom townhouse with a spa bathroom that includes a whirlpool and double headed shower and a porch and a kitchen with all the fixins for a mere $575,000.
Can you be a New York hottie if you’re on the lam in Cincinnati?
I know. I’ve got to go back and deal with whatever is going to happen. This is the life I’ve chosen for myself. I’ve chosen the consequences too.
Now if only I could go back and see what they were.
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about me
So why am I writing this blog? I have an inner exhibitionist that just needs to be let out. I've always wanted to bare myself completely in front of strangers but have always been held back by fear.
As strange as it may sound, I've never really truly bared myself in front of any of my clients. For all that they've seen, they've never seen me be me. And for all that I've seen, I simply need to share it with you!
So why should you come? To be tantalized and teased. To get release by knowing the true me.
I promise that I won't bite, and if I do bite, I'll make sure you like it!
my favorite posts
- Caveat Vendor - Part II
- Selling Out (Part III)
- Poops!... I Did It Again!
- My First Escorting Experience
- My First Lesbian Experience
- Daddy's Little Girl (Part II)
- Selling Out (Part III)
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raunchy humor
sexy stories
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